


a house with all the windows open

by luchiden



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Ghosts, M/M, Surrealism, Unreliable Narrator, god knows i try to forget peter lukas exists
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:14:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23180767
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luchiden/pseuds/luchiden
Summary: Tim is haunting him – in an absolutely metaphorical sense, of course. Or, well.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Tim Stoker
Comments: 4
Kudos: 22





	a house with all the windows open

All Martin hears is running water. The tap doesn’t work properly and his hands under the water are soaking up like a sponge, uneven bumpy skin. The water is hot, then cold, then hot, then cold, and he keeps having to adjust the temperature and it never sticks. Under that hot-cold water, he rubs soap into his skin, trying to wash off the feeling of filth.

He doesn’t look at his face in the mirror. Or rather, he tries not to look at his face in the mirror. He thinks, maybe he had a nice smile, if only he could remember it. He remembers liking it – straight teeth from wearing braces, making his face warm and welcoming. It’s unlike the smile of Jonathan, like a sharp wound. All the same, he looks at his face and he looks at himself looking.

Everything is a bit different, after the unknowing, after the Unknowing, after Martin knew and then he Didn’t and then he Knew.

Martin knows how he looks – like the end of the world.

When he blinks, it’s suddenly a different face, and this is a different world, maybe in another life. Martin stumbles back and his hands are still wet from the tap, the water running hot.

Tim is, of course, not different in any way. Martin supposes it’s an aftermath of dying, not being able to change. His skin dark and sun-kissed, the bridge of his nose straight and strong, and regal. As handsome as Martin remembers him. He’s not crying and Martin does not really feel like crying either. It bothers him how his hands are still wet so he wipes them on the sides of his pants.

“Tim?” He whispers and brings his hand to the glass, his full palm over where Tim’s heart should have been. Where it logically should be.

He feels a bit stupid, as if he’s talking to himself and then he feels even more stupid because, of course he is. Logically, Martin is hallucinating – this is what fear tends to do to you.

When Tim turns to him, he really doesn’t. His gaze slides right over, a bit to the left, a bit higher than where Martin is.

His voice is quiet when he murmurs, “Danny?”

From all the things, Martin is sure he missed Tim’s voice the most. There is nothing really remarkable about it – a full laugh, a rumbling timbre, but nothing that would make you think of it without hearing it. Or, at least, that’s what Martin used to think, before. He would sing sometimes. Martin misses that, pretending to adjust his glasses while sitting on his desk so he could tilt his head towards the sound of Tim humming softly. Martin misses the lilt of his voice when he was amused, clinging to Martin with his arms enveloping Martin’s waist, saying ‘Oh, _come on_ , tell Sasha I’m the better friend. Tell her I’m your best friend!’

Martin wouldn’t be able to tell Sasha anything but Tim would never ask either.

For all the things Martin has missed, Tim’s voice is the worst reminder, which is all the more reason he remembers it.

“I’m, no, sorry, not Danny,” Martin says and he looks at Tim frown. His eyes are milk-white, all through, as if he is blind, even though they move as if they see. Martin couldn’t remember Tim’s real eyes if he tried to.

When Tim turns to him it’s like a gear – a natural progression, slow and deliberate, as if this is a rehearsal and if Martin weren’t there, Tim would still turn to the place where Martin is standing.

Martin looks at Tim’s weird eyes and he wishes he could say something. Wishes he could find the right words.

“I see,” Tim says and his voice is flat, as if a recording. “Who are you?”

When Martin blinks, his own face is staring back at him, pale and ghastly. He turns off the tap, his hands shaking.

He still hears the sound of water.

Martin wakes on the cold floorboards of the common room in the Archives. Martin wakes with his left arm underneath him and his teeth hurting – he relaxes his jaw, breathes in deep. Tim is staring at him, inches from his face.

The floor is not a floor but a wall and Martin is leaning against it, Tim bracketing him on both sides, hidden between the private shelves of files and books. The artifact storage, for all its gloomy fame, is an incredibly cozy place, given enough determination.

Tim smiles at him, only a bit taller than Martin is.

“Remember me now?” Martin says but he is smiling and he doesn’t know why.

Or he knows. This is, of course, a memory.

“Remember you always.” Tim says and his fingers are warm when he places a hand on Martin’s cheek and leans down. His mouth is soft and warm, and like a heart in so many ways. He was a human far more than any of them ever were.

There is a bubbling sound inside of Martin’s throat and it is alive, and he cannot hold it if he tried. The laughter breaks out of him and he might have been embarrassed, had this not been Tim. Had it been anybody else.

But Tim laughs, just as Martin knew he would, and he kisses Martin’s open mouth and the sound in his chest.

“Just like the first time.” Tim says between breathless hiccups, eyes already glistening as if with tears. He kisses Martin, right underneath the corner of his eye and Martin realizes he’s already crying.

“We were so stupid back then. I wish I had not wasted all my time with you.” Tim whispers and tucks a stray hair behind Martin’s ear and he is gone.

The wall is a floor and the floor is a roof and he is standing next to somebody who has their face away from him.

This is a memory. This is a memory as much as it is a dream. Martin wishes he could make him turn around. This is a moment he remembers he will regret for the rest of his life.

“What should I do, then? What can I do? “Martin asks and his mouth is an honest thing, the beast that swallowed his heart.

Tim’s face contorts, rage etched into his brows. “-this: Either kill me or-”

Martin wakes in his own bed and his apartment is flooded. His mattress is floating, untethered.

It’s a week until Tim speaks to him again. For a week he just watches, standing next to Martin while he fills the coffee pot with water, sitting on the opposite side of his table while Martin butters up toast, unblinkingly watching him sleep. Sometimes he’s smiling. Sometimes he is expressionless, as if he is seeing something else while watching Martin. Sometimes he is not there at all.

Martin knows he should probably mind it more. He should probably go to a psychiatrist.

It’s a week before Tim speaks to him.

“Your hair has grown longer.” He whispers. His voice sounds nostalgic, as if in reminiscence. It is full of emotion that breaks the words.

“You’re right,” Martin agrees, pushing up his glasses with his knuckles, a pen between his fingers.

Martin hadn’t thought about it, what with the Archives and with the nightmares. It is true and he does notice it, if only to put a hair clip to keep it out of his eyes.

“Suits you.” Tim says and he is standing behind him now and Martin maybe only imagines the warmth of his body.

Tim’s fingers are gentle when they comb through the hair behind Martin’s ear, softly. Martin sighs and closes his eyes, leaving his pen on top of the paperwork he was looking through.

“Hm,” he murmurs. “Tell me more.”

Tim laughs, a low rumble Martin feels in his own chest. His hands are warm as Tim lifts up his hair and leans in to place a soft kiss on Martin’s naked nape.

“I’m doing this for the last time, Martin.” He says as he fits his head in the crook of Martin’s neck. “This is the last time.”

There is something of a deja-vu. Thinking, “I should turn around and look at him.” Thinking, “I will regret this someday.”

As it is, though, he doesn’t turn.

“No.” He seeks Tim’s hand in his own, an anchor. “Stay. Stay.”

But he blinks and he’s no longer in his room. He’s sprawled on his back, the sky overheard wide and vast and grey. He hears water - the sea is licking at his feet.

“Dream something nice?” Peter Lukas asks, a question like a knife. He’s crouching next to Martin, examining him.

“No.” Martin says, throwing an arm over his eyes.

“Shame.” Lukas says and gets up, dusting off his pants. “Come on, get up then.”

Martin sighs. The back of his neck burns, as if a kiss had left a scar.

**Author's Note:**

> interpret it as you wish. s/o to *gowon voice* my one and only love, si. and thanks for reading :^)


End file.
